


Innocent Curiosity

by Jellymish



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Coming Out, Gay Character, Gen, LGBT, LGBT+, alcohol and bad decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 16:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20449913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jellymish/pseuds/Jellymish
Summary: The first piece of advice I would give any freshly baked Detective Constable who wishes to survive in the Metropolitan Police is that no matter how drunk you are, there are just some things you never, ever ask your superior officer.





	Innocent Curiosity

The first piece of advice I would give any freshly baked Detective Constable who wishes to survive in the Metropolitan Police is that no matter how drunk you are, there are just some things you never, ever ask your superior officer. Unfortunately, after you’ve reached a certain blood alcohol level, your sense of self-preservation tends to switch off. It all boils down to this: Drunk people seldom listen to the voice of reason. And that’s exactly why you get those situations when you’re on your way back from the Met’s Christmas party and you end up asking your governor what his sexual orientation is.

It all started innocently enough. After Lesley had blatantly refused to accompany me to the party, stating a headache as an excuse to shut herself away in her room for the rest of the night, I had taken it upon myself to convince Inspector Nightingale to come along instead. It took some persuasion on my part, but eventually he agreed, stating that he would be willing to come along, as long as he wasn’t required to participate in any pretend Christmas cheer. Which suited me fine, especially because he decided to take his classic grey Jaguar MK II, which automatically made Nightingale the designated driver for the evening. I still wasn’t allowed to drive the Jag because I hadn’t passed the advanced driving test. On any other day, that unfortunate circumstance would have filled me with a deep sense of loss, but today it meant I could go to the party and have as much „Christmas cheer“ as I wanted.

Which I did. To the point that, around one in the morning, Nightingale materialised next to me, grabbing my upper arm and kindly making it known that it was time for me to go home. Apparently, I was so far gone that he had to hold me up as we made our way out of the main building and over to the parking lot. The Jag waited for us in a corner, wedged in-between a criminally large range rover SUV and a Fiat Punto that looked as if it had been parked by a five-year-old. Nightingale ended up having to prop me up against a wall, before he squeezed himself into his car and backed out of the parking space, so he had enough room to manoeuvre me into the passenger seat.

As we slowly crept our way out and onto the dark London streets, I noticed my vision blurring in pulsating intervals. It occurred to me then that I might’ve had a little _too_ much Christmas cheer. I told Nightingale as much and he sighed, stopping at a red light and turning his head to me.

„Your insight astounds me,“ he said flatly. Needless to say, the sarcasm went right over my head.

I rubbed my eyes clumsily and as I did, the light turned green and we started moving again. „Fuck, I am _sooooo_ _drunk,_“ I slurred, adding a few more syllables to the „so“ than entirely necessary. „Sorry. Language,“ I added and actually felt slightly cheeky about the whole situation. Like a child who’d noticed that he’d said a bad word in front of his dad.

Nightingale simply shrugged. „Don’t apologise to me, apologise to your future self.“

I giggled. „I'm going to have the hangover of the century!“

Nightingale actually shot me a look, a proper _look, _from the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to the road.

Which was the regretful moment when my drunk brain neglected to keep my mouth shut.

„Inspector?“ I asked, cheerfully lolling my head over to make eye contact.

„Yes, Peter?“

„Can I ask you a personal question?“

He sighed. „If you must.“

„Are you gay?“

The silence drew out in a way that, had I been of sound mind, would have made me want to jump out of the car window right then and there. Such as it was, it went unnoticed.

Finally, Nightingale gave a cautious reply. „What makes you think that?“ he said.

„It’s the way you dress.” I slurred, “I noticed it when we first met. I mean, it’s not like… _everyone_, but gay men tend to dress better than most straight men and you dress really well. I mean, really, _really_ well. And you’ve got that… aura.“

„Aura?“

„Yeah, you know, that slightly effeminate aura, like… a bit camp. And you like being around men, like… it’s like you’re magneta… mag… magnetically attracted to them.“

„That’s… an interesting way to look at it.“

The hefty silence returned as Nightingale took a moment to think about my very clumsily expounded theories, scratching his clean-shaven chin with a faraway look in his eyes.

„And what would it mean to you if I was?“ he asked.

As my thoughts presently had the consistency of unmelted butter, it took me a while to conjure up the vocabulary to answer: „If you _were_ gay? Nothing, really, except for which kind of bar to take you to, cause I gotta tell you… Sitting at home and never going out? Never meeting anyone? It isn’t right. Everyone needs that special someone, you know? You need some _fun_ in your life.“

„I… well–“

„And it doesn’t seem like you get to do fun things. Like… when was the last time you dated someone? When was the last time you had a good old romp in the sheets?“

„Now _that_ is something you do not need to know.“

„No, really… Eighties? Nineties? Early two thousands?“

„You’re drunk, Peter. Get some sleep.“

„It’s not healthy, is all I’m saying.“

„I said, sleep. This is hardly a conversation to be had in your state.“

After that I must’ve nodded off, because the next thing I remember is waking up at the Folly with the biggest headache in the history of mankind. And a sense of regret I would possibly never be able to shake for the rest of my life.

„Fuck me…“ I moaned and buried my head under my pillow. I had to apologise to Nightingale and talk this out. As soon as possible.

I met him in the breakfast room after I schlepped myself down the stairs, wincing every so often as my head burst into flames when I didn’t walk softly enough. He was in a strangely chipper mood, with what I could swear was a smirk hidden behind his coffee cup as he saw me stagger in. Somehow, this was worse than seeing him annoyed.

„You look like you’re having a fine morning,“ he commented and put his cup down, amusement evident in his eyes. I gingerly lowered myself down into the chair opposite and made a face as another stab of pain sliced my head in two. „Is it that obvious?“

„If you really want to know, you look absolutely horrendous.“

„Good. Because I feel absolutely horrendous,“ I said and rubbed my sore eye. A memory crept up from the dirty depths of my mind, of an elbow coming towards me in a crowd of dancing bodies, and a flash of music. „Reggae Night?“ I muttered.

Nightingale took another sip of his coffee. „What on earth happened to yesterday’s Christmas cheer?“

„Santa took it away“, is what I didn’t say. Instead, a heavy silence, made awkward by my rising anxiety, spread across the table like one of those white dust sheets you cover your old furniture with when you don’t need it anymore. Finally, I stopped avoiding Nightingale’s gaze and leaned forward, clasping my hands together. I took a deep breath and went for it. No use in dragging it out.

„Look, Inspector… About yesterday… I really overstepped a line there. And I am really, deeply sorry about what I said.“

„So you remember,“ Nightingale replied flatly.

I stopped myself from nodding and emphatically raised my eyebrows instead. „Yeah. I was smashed, but not _that_ smashed.“ _Unfortunately_, I added in the privacy of my own swirling thoughts. I didn’t just remember, last night would forever be burned into my mind as one of the most awkward and socially painful interactions I would ever have.

Sighing, Nightingale put his cup back down on its saucer, after which he mirrored my stance, propping his elbows up onto the table and folding his hands together. After a moment, a moment that seemed too long for my pounding heart to handle, he directed a frown at me.

„You certainly overstepped a line yesterday,“ he stated.

My stomach churned in response, making me swallow audibly before Nightingale went on. „_But_ I did allow you to ask a personal question, so part of the blame sits on my shoulders. As your superior officer and your Master, I should have handled that situation much better, for which I apologise.“

I was stunned. I must've looked like that screenshot of Patrick Star from that one Spongebob episode where he sits on the floor with his gaping mouth taking up half his body.

Meanwhile, Nightingale mercilessly went on: „However, now that I’ve essentially come out to you, I simply ask that you keep our conversation to yourself. Your hangover is punishment enough, I think. Which reminds me…“ Smiling to himself, he pulled an orange box out of his blazer pocket and handed it to me, before pouring me a glass of water. I read the label on the box. „Alka-Seltzer Wake-UP Call“, it said in bold writing. I let out a sigh of relief. „You’re a savior, this stuff works wonders!“

„So Lesley tells me,“ Nightingale answered, sitting back as I popped one of the tablets into the glass, where it started fizzing.

Another wave of silence washed over us, with the slight difference that I was no longer anxious enough to chuck up whatever liquids I'd ingested in the morning. I was just mustering up the courage to try some of my suspiciously colourful breakfast, when Nightingale awkwardly cleared his throat.

“There was something I've been meaning to ask,” he said, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Hmm?” I mumbled around my fork.

“Do you really think I’m… camp?“

I almost choked on my scrambled eggs. „Well... camp is probably the wrong word,“ I decided, „It’s more like… you know how certain groups are really distinctive? Like emo kids or bankers?“

„I’m not sure if I follow…“

„Basically, if you see an emo kid, you can just tell it’s an emo kid. They have their own… look. Like, a certain style and a certain way of acting. So do jazz musicians, by the way. And I think it's the same with gay guys, just maybe a little less obvious.“

„Sometimes I do ask myself what the world looks like from inside your head, Peter.“

„Why?“

„Because you have an astounding way of looking at your surroundings. You’re easily distracted, but at the same time you constantly overanalyse everything you see. It is quite remarkable.“

„I’ll take that as a compliment.“

When there was no retort from the other side of the table, I looked up from my plate and found Nightingale staring off into the distance, as if he was watching a non-existent TV on the other side of the hall.

“Everything allright?”, I asked.

Nightingale nodded and, in a very rare show of feelings, smiled. In quite a sweet way.

„Yes,” he answered, “I just... always thought I’d be terrified if anyone ever found out, but it’s surprisingly relieving to let someone know.”

I grinned mischievously. “Good! Maybe I should get hammered more often,” I said.

Nightingale gave me the kind of look that, if looks were poisonous, would have probably killed me on the spot. “Peter, should this ever happen again, I will personally make sure that you regret it for the rest of your life.”

And just like that, our little moment of brotherly bonding was over. Fortunately, really. Feelings were all well and good, but get too much into it and the next thing you know, you'll be going through your whole life story with your boss offering you a shoulder to cry on. Either that or he'd be awkwardly sitting there, waiting for it to be over. 

I don't know about you, but I could definitely do without that.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an old gem I rediscovered in my fanart folder last week. I wrote most of it in 2018 when I was binge-reading the books and have no idea why I didn't finish it sooner! 
> 
> Also, I feel the need to add a disclaimer here, that I'm in no way trying to reinforce gay stereotypes. I'm gay myself and get confronted by that stuff all the time. However, our beloved Peter does have his non-malicious, but painfully straight moments sometimes, for which I love him tbh. I hope you all felt Nightingale's eye-roll. XD 
> 
> Anyway, this was hella fun to write! I think I captured Peter's rambly style of storytelling quite well. :D


End file.
